


Gangsters and Bears

by charivari



Category: Original Work
Genre: Circus, F/M, Masturbation, Reference to kidnapping, Shapeshifting, Witness Protection, mafia, mob doctor - Freeform, reference to animal abuse, werebear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 03:24:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5692741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charivari/pseuds/charivari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank Pasquale is a mob doctor in Witness Protection, forced to stay in a secluded cabin in the middle of nowhere. When a bear finds its way in, he doesn't expect she's actually a human, a skin-changer escaped from an abusive Russian circus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gangsters and Bears

If Frank Pasquale had known that Witness Protection would involve a cabin in the middle of nowhere, he may not blabbed all he knew about the mob.

"You are fucking kidding right?" he said to Campion as soon as they pulled up in front of the place Pasquale was expected to stay until the trial.

Agent Campion rolled her eyes at the mob doctor. It wasn't the first time he had complained during the whole trip. The radio station she listened to was shit, the coffee she'd bought at the gas station wasn't warm enough, his legs hurt from having to sit on his ass so long. It had taken all her patience not to put a bullet in him.

"What were you expecting? The Ritz?" she drawled, "Our budget can't exactly afford that. Besides, Tagliano and his men are never going to look for you here."

"What a shame," Pasquale sighed, "I'd prefer a bullet to staying in this dump."

"Don't tempt me," Campion growled, "Just get your bags. I'll drive to the next town, pick up some supplies."

"You're leaving?" Pasquale sounded like protesting five-year old, "What I am supposed to do?"

Campion shrugged, unable to stop herself feeling smug.

"There should be some books in there, vinyls too, plenty to keep yourself occupied."

Pasquale grit his teeth,

"What do I look like? A fucking geriatric? At least tell me there's a television…"

"Nope," Campion smirked, "I'll be back later okay."

She turned, digging her hand in her pocket for her keys. Pasquale dumped his suitcase on the porch and bounded after her, reaching for her arm in desperation.

"Come on," he purred in the voiced he used for his more attractive patients, "Let me come with you. I'll be good. No complaining. Please Daphne."

He gave her the puppy dog look that usually made women melt. But not Campion, she glared at the use of her first name. She never offered it to him. He just happened to be present when a co-worker referred to her as thus.

"Agent Campion," she corrected him icily, "Let go of me Mr. Pasquale, or do I have to use force."

"You can use all the force you have on me baby," Pasquale said huskily, "I find the whole Amazonian warrior thing pretty sexy."

He wheezed as Campion pushed him away with a sharp blow to the chest.

"Enjoy the serenity Pasquale," she huffed as she opened her car door, "Hopefully it will de-slime your attitude."

"Don't act like you don't want me!" Pasquale shouted as she pulled away, flooring it down the dirt track that lead them here, "Stuck-up cow," he muttered, rubbing his chest, "Nice ass though."

He smiled at the thought. It was his good fortune to be saddled with a female Agent, one who was pretty easy on the eyes despite her distaste for him. It was natural he supposed, she saw him as one of the bad guys. A corrupt doctor in the bankroll of the mob, someone who patched up their bullet wounds and broken bones. She didn't understand he had never wanted this life, that he had turned turncoat out of want for freedom, not greed.

His father had been one of Tagliano's soldiers, had served the family faithfully until his heart-attack at 55. It had always been the expectation that his son serve just as faithfully. He had put him through medical school for the sole motive of being the mob's physician. Sure it had thrilling at first, being involved in something covert and criminal. But the excitement had soon wore off. He was given no respect by the made-men who came in expecting him to fix their boo-boos. They didn't see him as one of them, just a sissy doctor pretending he was hard-core by consorting with bad guys. But he endured it, for the sake of his father when he was still alive. Like all sons he craved paternal approval.

But then his dad kicked the bucket and Pasquale started to look for a way out. It wasn't a position you could just quit. Tagliano wasn't about to let his doctor just up and lead a new life. He was a possessive bastard despite that gentleman persona of his, one that made the decision harder. He actually liked Tagliano, saw him an uncle figure. That was why he avoided going to the feds, not wanting to get the old man in trouble. But when Tagliano was diagnosed with cancer, terminal cancer, he realised this was his only chance. Surely they wouldn't throw a dying man in prison despite his multitude of crimes. The only people he would really screw over were those smug made-men assholes, including Tagliano's son Georgie whose nickname for Pasquale was Dr Quack. The thought of putting that douchebag behind bars had put a smile on Pasquale's face throughout his entire testimonial to the FBI.

But now, stuck in the middle of nowhere, all that sense of elation and victory gave way to frustration. It was impossible to tell how long it would before the trial actually took place, meaning he was stuck here to God knows when. A nicer prospect if Agent Nice Ass lacked morals and had been willing to sleep with him. But she had shot down all his attempts, leaving him with a bad case of blue-balls this whole trip. He supposed the solitude would at least give him to chance to relieve himself.

But he forced himself to explore the cabin first. It was more a comely weekend retreat than a hillbilly house. There were (sadly) no jugs of moonshine in the kitchen or hunting rifles jammed in the cupboards. The owner was obviously a neat-freak due to the plastic wrap over the furniture. Given they had offered it up to a man in Witness Protection it was probable they worked in some capacity with the FBI. Perhaps it even belonged to Campion.

The plastic coverings fitted her personality. So did the books lining the shelves and the collection of vinyls. 70's stuff, same as the radio channel she had forced him to listen to. For God's sake she was younger than him, why listen to the shit her parents probably fucked to. On closer inspection the books were mostly crime thrillers. Campion obviously liked her job a lot that she would read similar shit she dealt with in real life. If this was indeed Campion's cabin that was. He was becoming more and more enamoured with the idea. It felt sexy somehow, her bringing him to her personal retreat, as if he was her lover instead of her charge.

It made the prospect of jacking off even more devilishly appealing, the idea of the spilling himself on her floorboards. After all what the fuck else was he supposed to do. He ripped the plastic off the antique armchair she had probably bought at a garage sale thinking how quaint and charming it was. It was satisfying to lower his bare ass on it, pressing his flesh into the spot where Campion sat reading her paperbacks. He thought of her as he pumped his cock, naked, riding him, ass and breasts jiggling. He wasn't long before he came, hard, imagining himself spilling into her cunt when in reality his spunk hit the floor.

He sat a while, relaxing in the warm aftermath of his orgasm, thoughts lazy until he came to ponder when Campion would return. It was approaching late afternoon. As much as he enjoyed jacking off in her chair, he was loathe to have her burst in with his pants down, come splattered on the floor. She would kick his ass. Panicking somewhat he heaved himself out of the chair, moving to clean the floor before shooting into the shower. The plumbing was dodgy, dousing him with more cold water than warm. He emerged more irritated than refreshed, grumbling as he re-dressed. His stomach growled and he made his way into the kitchen, remembering the cans of food he had seen in the cabinets.

After checking the expiry he helped himself to a can of tuna. It wasn't the kind of meal Tagliano had treated him to at restaurants but it would curb his hunger until Campion returned. He cleaned up, washing fish smell off his fingers and breath in preparation for her arrival, which surely had to be soon.

But as night fell and he went around turning on every lamp, listening for the sound of tyres on gravel, there was no sign of her. Eventually boredom spurred him to choose a random book, trying to absorb the words. The attempt left him sleepy, book falling on his lap as he struggled to keep his eyes open.

"Fucking Campion," he murmured, "Bitch left me here to die."

In his tired state the idea sounded funny and he chuckled as he fell asleep.

He woke to a booming sound, almost falling out of the chair.

"What?" he slurred groggily, "Champion?" he said as he realised the sound was someone banging on the floor.

Did the bitch not remember she had taken the key with her?

"I'm coming, I'm coming."

He staggered over to the door, turned the knob (Christ, it wasn't locked!), criticism on the tip of his tongue as he swung open the door and…

"Jesus!" the cry tore from his lips as something large, brown and furred knocked him to the floor as it dashed in, on four legs.

Pasquale blinked his eyes in amazement. A bear. He had let a fucking bear inside the cabin. He watched its bulk vanish into the bedroom.

"Oh fuck, oh fucking fuck," he swore on trembling breath.

What the fuck was he supposed to do. He wasn't armed. There were no rifles squirrelled away. Not even a fucking baseball bat. Wait, the kitchen, he thought, there was at least a big ass butcher's knife in the drawer. He raised himself on trembling legs, trying to slip over to the kitchen as quietly as possible. He could hear the bear rummaging around, hear the sound of its breath mingling with the sound of his own. It wasn't until he reached the kitchen that he realised what a fucking stupid idea it was going up against a bear with a knife. Still he grabbed it anyway, trying to think what it was you were actually supposed to do during a bear attack. Make noise. Play dead.

"Fuck," he swore.

Those were two conflicting options. He would wind up dead if he picked the wrong one. He crept to the kitchen door and peered back into the living room. The bear was still in the bedroom. He could always run for it. But what if his thuds attracted the bear. Did he really want to race into unknown forest with a bear on his tail? A wave of bravado suddenly washed over him.

"Fuck, come on Frank, you fucking pussy," he murmured to himself, "Are you just going to lay down and let a bear fuck you over."

He gripped the knife. If he steal up on the bear, charge in and stab it in the skull or something. Imagine the headlines, man brings down killer bear. That would show those mobster assholes that he wasn't a weak rat bastard. Slightly delirious with adrenalin he padded into the living room, knife wielded high like a grim reaper. He reached the bedroom, poised ready to rush in and attack. But the element of surprise failed him.

The bear was on the bed, mattress cringing under its weight, eyes looking straight at him. It opened its maw and let out a bone-rattling roar. Pasquale almost pissed himself. Heart in his mouth he raced for the closet room he could lock himself inside. The bathroom. He huddled on the tiles, shivering, listening for the beast's footfalls. But there were none. He breathed a sigh of relief. The bear had remained where it was. This still posed a problem but know Pasquale was convinced he should wait out the bear's invasion in the bathroom. Surely it would move on soon, otherwise Campion would return and put a bullet in its brain.

Feeling comforted by these two options Pasquale closed his eyes and tried to sleep. It proved hard, the bathroom was freezing and not in the slightest bit as comfortable as the armchair. Finally sleep came, albeit briefly. He was woke to sunlight pricking his lids open. He groaned, feeling sore and stiff. For a second he wondered why the Hell he was in here. Then he remember the bear and his heart started to race. Was it gone? He moved to the door and listened intensely.

The sound of movement made him twitch. But as he continued listening he realised the sound of feet on the floorboards didn't sound as heavy and foreboding as a bear's. Campion, he thought, elated, she must be back. Judging the lack of gunshots startling him awake, the bear had obviously left prior to her arrival. Pasquale exited the bathroom, feeling slightly disgruntled. Campion had arrived to find him shut in the bathroom and hadn't thought anything odd of it. He couldn't wait to tell her the story, make her feel guilty for abandoning him.

"Hey Camp…" his words and body skidded to a halt.

The woman with her head thrust in one of the cabinets was not Campion. Her hair was brown and unruly compared to Campion's sleek ponytail. Also she was completely naked. He didn't have time to fully absorb this as the mystery woman turned, saw him and screamed. Not a high-pitched hysterical scream, more a throaty yell like the war cry of a warrior woman. She charged and Pasquale found himself leaping out of her path. Instead of changing course to attack, she dashed past him, into the bedroom, slamming the door.

"Great," Pasquale said, "First bears now crazy naked ladies."

The latter was preferable to deal with than bears. Women he could handle, or at least he told himself so. He went up to the door and rapped on it gently,

"Hi sweetheart," he called in best reassuring voice, "No need to be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you. Why don't you come out and I can get you some help."

Showing up naked he figured she had to be some sort of addict. He had no phone to tell the police to pick her up. The most he could was get her to come out and put some clothes on before Campion returned. No doubt she would find some way to blame him for the woman being here. She would pad him down for a cell phone thinking he had called an escort service to come out in the middle of nowhere. She would likely believe that over his story about the bear. Women. At least he would be able to jibe her about acting jealous.

Inside the bedroom there was no response. He rapped on the door again,

"Come on sweetheart, I'm not going to rape or anything."

He winced a little at having to say this but he figured it had to be said. But wasn't enough to convince her to open the door. Pasquale sighed, patience wearing thin.

"Look," he said, "I've had a really bad night's sleep. The last thing I want to deal with is a lunatic. If you won't come out, I'm coming in."

He tested the knob, finding it was unlocked. Smiling triumphantly at the girl's oversight, he swung the door open. Immediately he blanched in horror. There was no girl cringing on the bed. Just the bear, the fucking bear he thought had scarpered. The bear raised up on its hind legs, head almost brushing the ceiling. It bared his teeth then fell forward on all fours, obviously meaning to pursue him this time. Pasquale scrambled for the front door, confused and terrified. He lunged for the knob and found himself grasping air as he crashed into the door, pinned by bear claws. Half-dazed he found himself looking into a snarling face.

"Please don't kill me," the words fell uselessly from his mouth, "Please, please."

He closed his eyes, waiting for bear to maul him beyond recognition. Instead he felt the weight ease from his chest. Tentatively he opened his eyes, watching the bear retreat back in the bedroom. He was dumbstruck. Had a predatory animal just heeded his pleas for mercy? Against better judgement he found himself moving back to towards the bedroom. The bear was nestled back on the bed. Its lip curled back at the sight of him.

"Easy," Pasquale raised his hands, "You and I aren't going to harm each, are we?"

To his amazement the bear bobbed its head, as if in understanding. Pasquale shook his head, wondering if he was dreaming. He pinched himself. No this was real. A bear who understood human language. He smiled, somewhat wildly, surrendering himself to the craziness before him.

"A woman came in here earlier," he said aloud to the bear, "Do you know where she went?"

There was no sign of blood so the creature couldn't have attacked her. Was she hiding under the bed, in a closet? The bear just stared at him, dark gaze solemn, almost sad.

"Can I look?" he asked, pointing to the bed, "You won't attack me?"

The same wild smile came to his face. He was losing touch with reality here, expecting the bear to respond like it understood him again. When it did, giving a slow shake of its head, a ripple of excitement ran over his body. It failed to erase all fear however and he approached the bed cautiously, eyes trained the occupant, ready to leap out of the way of a paw swipe. He was about to duck his gaze under the bed when there came a knock on the front door, breaking the silence and causing him to yelp. The bear started digging its claws into the bed, a low whine rumbling in its throat. Pasquale watched in confusion. The bear's eyes were anxious, almost fearful.

"It's okay," he found himself saying, "It's probably…"

He trailed off. It couldn't be Campion. She would just let herself in.

"Wait here," he told the bear.

He drifted to where he had left the knife, holding it behind his back as he answered the door. It was trio of unknown men, two in drab workmen clothes while the other wore a deep red coat, one worn by a ringleader of a circus.

"Apologies for disturbing you Sir," his voice had a theatrical lilt punctuated with a faint accent, "My name is Yuri Vladovich, of Vladovich Circus, my cousins Boris and Yefim."

He gestured to his companions.

Pasquale leaned against the doorframe, affecting an air of boredom.

"What's a Russian circus doing in the middle of nowhere?" he enquired.

Yuri broke into a wide genial smile.

"Why, what a circus always do, travelling world, bringing joy to children…"

"Uh huh," Pasquale interrupted his spiel, "What brings you to my door then. You giving out free tickets?"

Yuri's smile faltered. His cousins openly glared at Pasquale. Yuri forced a laugh, rubbing his hands together.

"No, no, with the circus' numerous expenses, we cannot afford free tickets."

"Shame," Pasquale drawled.

"Yes," Yuri looked as though he was fighting not to glare, "Anyways, as to the reason we are here, I'm afraid one of our performing animals escaped during the night."

The bear, Pasquale thought immediately. Why else would it have had such a reaction to a knock on the door? He folded his arms, playing none the wiser.

"Don't tell me you've released a lion or tiger into the woods."

"Oh no," Yuri said, "Our big cats safe in cages. It was our bear who escape. Our Anya."

"I see," Pasquale scratched his chin, "Well I certainly haven't seen any bears."

Yuri's expression gave way to annoyance.

"Sir there is bear prints leading to your door," he pointed at the ground, "This is why we are here."

"You don't say," Pasquale pretended to study to the prints with a deal of curiosity, "Heard something banging on the door last night. Thought it was wind. Guess the bear gave up and wandered away."

All three men glared at him. Boris, or was it Yefim, leaned to whisper something in Russian in Yuri's ear. Yuri nodded, lips curving in a threatening smile.

"Yefim say the tracks they lead to house but not away from it."

Pasquale lifted an eyebrow,

"Are you trying to suggest I let a wild animal inside my house?" he snorted, "You think I would be standing here completely un-mangled if I did."

"Anya she… special bear," Yuri said, "Act more human than animal."

The cousins exchanged somewhat secretive looks.

"I don't give shit," Pasquale said, swiftly regaining their attention, "Your bear isn't here so you better get off my property. Before I call the cops."

A flicker of worry crossed their faces at the mention of police. They had no way of knowing that Pasquale didn't even have access to a cell phone.

"Apologies," Yuri bowed, "We will leave you."

He pulled a business card from his pocket.

"If you do see bear, please call."

"Whatever," Pasquale snatched the card and crumpled it in his fist.

The Russians left, conversing rapidly in their mother tongue. Pasquale had a feeling it wasn't the last he had seen of them. He closed the door, locking it this time.

"You no tell them," a raspy accented voice startled him.

He whipped around to face to the naked woman. Her expression was joyous as she seized him in a crushing hug.

"Okay, okay," he wheezed, too uncomfortable to enjoy the fact it was a naked woman hugging him. She released him, looking apologetic.

"Okay I'm really confused," he said, trying not to stare too directly at her breasts, "Who are you?"

"Anya," she said.

He stared at her in even greater confusion.

"Anya's the bear's name," he muttered.

"Anya is bear," the woman said,

"Huh?"

"Anya is bear, bear is Anya," she tapped her chest in emphasis.

Pasquale shook his head. He was convinced this woman was crazy. However it couldn't be a coincidence she shared the same accent as his Russian visitors.

"Bear in bedroom," he said, mimicking her accent slightly as he moved towards the bedroom.

His eyes narrowed in confusion. There was no live bear on the bed, only a bundle of fur that resembled a bear-skin rug.

"Fur," the woman said as she passed him, "Make me bear."

She dragged the fur off the bed, drawing it over her. The transformation happened in a blink of an eye. Pasquale found himself staring at a living, breathing bear.

"Fuck," he cried as the bear waddled towards him, "Y-you weren't kidding."

He tentatively reached out to touch the bear's head.

"What the fuck are you?"

He yelped as the bear stood, fur peeling away to reveal the woman beneath.

"Skin-changer."

Pasquale eyed the fur at her feet, trying to grasp the concept.

"Like a werewolf?"

Anya grinned,

"No wolf, bear."

"Jesus a were-bear," Pasquale tossed his head back and laughed rather wildly, "No wonder those Ruskies wanted you back."

Anya's face paled. She sunk down, huddling in her circle of furs.

"Stole me. From home, family. Make me be bear all time. Do tricks."

"That sucks," Pasquale couldn't think of more eloquent way to express his disapproval.

Anya shivered, eyes glazed with sadness.

"Chain me up. Beat me when not do things right."

Pasquale looked over her shoulders to her back. He could see the faint scarring.

"That's why you ran away," he murmured.

"Yes. Want home go."

"Where is home?" Pasquale asked, "Russia?"

Anya looked up at him in surprise, then nodded sadly.

"Well you're a long way from home."

Pasquale didn't realise how insensitive the statement was until tears began pouring down Anya's cheeks. Cursing under at himself, Pasquale bent down on one knee,

"Hey don't cry. You're at least free of those carnie fucks. You were rummaging in the kitchen earlier, are you hungry?"

Anya stared at him, tears still bright with tears, and gave a shy nod. Pasquale smiled, relieved to find a distraction to her melancholy. He stood, shrugged off his trench coat and held it out. Anya gazed at it confusedly.

"Don't get me wrong," Pasquale said, "You being naked is sexy as hell. But if Campion actually gets here and sees you, she'll chew me out."

"Campion?" the bear-woman echoed.

"I'll explain later," Pasquale said, "Just take the trench okay."

Anya obeyed, putting on the jacket clumsily as if she were a child just learning to dress. Pasquale supposed she may or not have ever worn human clothes, but he decided that was a question for that.

"Here," he said gently, reaching to do up the buttons.

It was a shame to clothe her but the addition of the coat made her look a little bit more normal. He led her into the kitchen, sat her down and fetched a few cans from the cabinets. She wrinkled her nose at beans, salivating more at the sight of tuna. She gulped the contents of three cans in seconds. Pasquale leaned back in his chair watching her,

"Boy you really were hungry," he remarked.

Anya ducked her head self-consciously, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Don't be embarrassed," Pasquale gave her a bright smile, "Finding a girl who actually likes to eat, it's rare. As rare as a were-bear actually."

He laughed a little at his own joke. Anya brightened, smiling as she lifted her fingers to her mouth, licking them clean as she looked around.

"Home nice," she said.

Pasquale shrugged,

"It's okay. It's only temporary."

Anya's brows knitted together.

"Temporary," she sounded out slowly.

"Not forever," Pasquale explained, "Once the trial is over, I'll find somewhere better."

"Trial?"

Pasquale took a deep breath before launching in the more in-depth version of how he had wound up here. He told her about his father, the mob, becoming a doctor, Tagliano's cancer. It actually felt good to talk about it all. Anya was a good listener, hanging intently on his words, only interjecting when he used an unfamiliar word. Her English was only basic as he finding out.

"Enough about me," he said finally, "Tell me about you."

It was a line you used on a first date. Weirdly this was it felt like, two people sharing secrets about themselves over a dinner table. Except Anya wasn't a woman he had asked out to a fancy restaurant. She was an abused circus animal who had stumbled into his life. She didn't talk about her time with the circus however, only her life prior. Her parents. Her father was an ordinary human. Her ability to turn into a bear had been inherited from her mother's line.

The mythos of the family was that a goddess had turned their maternal ancestor into a bear. Anya and her parents had lived happily on the outskirts of a Russian village, their secret tightly guarded. Anya had only been allowed to turn bear when her mother took her deep into the forest. One fateful day Anya had defied her mother, changed form in plain sight as she played by the edge of the road. This is where she trailed off.

Pasquale didn't press her to finish. It was obvious this lapse in judgement had led to her being spotted by the people who had imprisoned her. They must have been passing through the town on route to one of the bigger cities.

"Should have listened to Mama," Anya said, sounding on the verge of tears.

"Hey you were a kid, you didn't know better," Pasquale comforted her, "Hell the list of dumb shit I did when I was a kid…"

This brought a smile to Anya's face. He had since found the lift of her lips turned him into goo. He was about to tell her so when he heard the approach of a car. Anya reacted with panic, thinking it was Russians returning with more muscle. Pasquale did his best to calm her, moving to the window to see it was actually Campion's car coming up the driveway.

"It's Campion," he told Anya, "Who I told you about. Stay here. I'll have to explain about you first."

That would be a challenge he thought to himself as he moved to the door.

"Hey Campion," he waved at the car now parked in front of the cabin, "Where the fuck have you…"

Bang! The window shattered behind him, spraying him with tiny fragments of glass. Pasquale turned almost robotically to look at the bullet-hole in the window. Confused he glanced back to the car, to the gun pointed out the crack in the window.

"What the fuck!" he screamed.

The gun withdrew, the car door opened and out stepped Gregor Russo. Tagliano's assassin. If Campion's car had lacked tinted window he might have identified him quicker. Pasquale reeled back, cabin wall bracing his fall.

"H-how?" he croaked.

"How did I find you?" Russo smiled serenely, gun trained on Pasquale as he approached, "Well it was pretty easy. Tagliano's friends in FBI ratted you out."

"Campion?"

Russo shook her head,

"No not her. She was just on the wrong assignment at the wrong time," he sighed, "Such a waste having to kill her. She was a pretty one."

"You bastard," Pasquale growled. For all her iciness Campion had been a dedicated agent, putting up with his shit all this time. She had deserved better than to be killed by Russo.

"You have no one to blame but yourself Frank," Russo said evenly, "If you hadn't turned rat, Ms. Campion would still be alive."

"Fuck you," Pasquale spat. If he was about die, he wasn't able to show his killer any courtesy.

"My bullets will, I assure you," Russo's face hardened, "You've broken the boss' heart you know, betraying him like you did. He supported you all your life and for what for?" he shook his head, "And you wait for him to get cancer before you screw him over, you piece of trash…"

"That's _why_ I did it," Pasquale shouted, "He won't live long enough to see prison."

"That doesn't matter Frank," Russo said briskly, "A betrayal is a betrayal as far as the boss is fucking concerned. Which is why, you have to die."

Pasquale closed his eyes, waiting for inevitable gunfire. But it wasn't a bang that filled the air, it was a roar. Pasquale's eyes shot open to see the whir of brown that was Anya charging towards Russo. The hit man's face was frozen in horror. He pulled the trigger in quick succession. One tore through Anya's shoulder but that wasn't enough to slow her approach. She fell upon Russo, knocking him to the ground as her jaws tore into his neck. Russo squirmed, cried, then fell silent, leaving only the sound of Anya's munching jaws. Pasquale hastened over, grabbing fistfuls of her fur.

"Stop, Anya, stop he's dead."

Anya reeled back, her muzzle dripping with blood. She threw off her bear guise, tears pricking at her eyes,

"H-he was going hurt you," she stuttered.

Pasquale wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight.

"I know," he murmured as her tears stained his shirt, "I'm very grateful to you."

Anya sniffed, looking up into his eyes and trying to smile. Pasquale pulled her to her feet and led her inside. He found a medic kit and cleaned up her shoulder. Fortunately it was only a graze.

"I guess we're both fugitives now," he mused aloud.

He obviously wasn't safe in the care of the FBI. Tagliano was likely to send more hit men to take his life. Anya was in a similar predicament. Her circus captors were just as likely to pursue her. Since they were in the same boat, Pasquale figured they were meant to be together.

"You rest up," he told her, "I'll get my stuff."

He smiled at her look of confusion.

"I'm taking you home Anya. To Mother Russia," his smile widened at her look of delight, "And fuck anyone who tries to get in our way."


End file.
